Michael didn't realise how much he was bleeding until Willow pointed it out.

  "It's still seeping," she said, voice calm but firm, guiding him back onto the stool. "Sit. Properly this time."

  He did as he was told, watching her move through the kitchen with the same quiet authority she used during service. She filled a bowl with warm water, added antiseptic, tore clean cloth from a drawer. Familiar motions. Grounding ones.

  "I'm sorry," he said again, softer now. "I didn't want you to see that."

  Willow paused, cloth in hand. "See what?"

  "That part of me." His voice faltered. "The part that hurts people."

  She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell soap and smoke andsomething unmistakably hers. "Michael," she said, gently lifting his chin until he had to meet her eyes, "you didn't hurt anyone who didn't mean to hurt me."

  The truth of it settled into him slowly.

  She cleaned the cut on his arm first, then moved lower, where a shallow slice marked his side beneath his shirt. When she lifted the fabric, he sucked in a breath—not from pain, but from exposure. Old scars traced faint lines across his skin, pale and healed but unmistakable.

  Her fingers stilled.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "Those…" she began, then stopped herself. She didn't ask. She didn't need to.

  Michael felt the heat rise in his chest, the instinct to cover, to hide. Instead, he stayed still. Let her see.

  Willow's hand hovered for a moment, then rested lightly against his side—not probing, not claiming. Just present.

  "I'm here," she said again, as if the words were a spell.

  He nodded, throat tight. The fear drained out of him in slow, trembling breaths. He hadn't realised how hard he'd been holding himself together until now.

  The room felt smaller. Warmer. The quiet between them shifted, no longer charged with danger but with something deeper—recognition, maybe. Or relief.

  Outside, the sea breathed steadily. Inside, fire waited patiently in the oven, banked and ready.

  Michael closed his eyes and leaned into the stillness, letting the moment exist without explanation.

  Willow's Diary

  I saw the marks they left on you tonight.

  Not just the fresh ones.

  You let me see them.

  That feels like trust.

  Poem — Where You Breathe

  You are not made of violence.

  You are made of endurance.

  Every scar says

  you survived.

  And tonight—

  you stayed.